The Ghosts in the Cellar
by IndigoProphecy
Summary: Fowl Manor hides the Fowls' many haunting secrets and buried lies. When Artemis unearths the most tragic secret of all, he realizes that there are some things better left unseen and forgotten. Oneshot


_the ghosts in the cellar_

* * *

"Almost every family on the rich list had a crazy uncle in the attic" – Dr. J. Argon, The Opal Deception

* * *

Exactly thrice in his life, he was told never to venture in Fowl manor's left wing. The boy remembered it clearly; it was the gardener's daughter, Father and finally Butler who had sternly warned him. Everything from ghosts to allowance cut-offs was threatened just to keep the young heir at bay. But the boy was a Fowl, and the command only further pushed him to explore the left wing's opulent halls.

Exploration proved that nothing was peculiar about the left wing. It had the same ancestral portraits and gothic arches that the rest of the manor had. It was only at age seven that the boy found the left wing's master bedroom, and inside was a man he had never seen before.

Upon inquiry, Butler told him that the man was his uncle. The uncle was sick but soon he would get better. He had believed his lifelong bodyguard, considering that his father was one of the world's greatest medical minds. Years have gone by; Artemis was no longer a little boy and Butler was no longer there. But despite Butler's assurances, uncle still spent his days inside his murky, dusty room.

All his life, the Fowl heir was fascinated by the Fowl who had never set foot outside the left wing. He had seen him many times, but never gathered the courage to enter his uncle's sanctum. All he did was watch, from the screens at his father's study, from the garden window, from across the hall.

Every single time he peeped inside his uncle's room, the old man was tinkering at his desk. He always seemed so occupied, stooped over his desk. The desk itself was organized to perfection, despite the ongoing work. Always, through the years, not a paper clip was out of place. The boy's uncle was clearly a busybody and an organized person. The uncle seemed a very healthy person, if it wasn't for the fact that he was a recluse in the left wing.

"He's a ghost. The ghost of Fowl manor." Saoirse, the gardener's daughter had once whispered in Artemis' ear. "At night he prowls the halls and goes down to the basements to guard the Fowls' secrets."

"If he's a ghost, then why do the maids leave him trays of food at three-hour intervals during the day?" Artemis had retorted.

Now, at fifteen years, Artemis decided to investigate on Saoirse' little gossip. Once 2 a.m. struck and every soul in the manor slumbered, he snuck out of his considerable bedroom. Dark the halls were, the boy never lost his way; Artemis had memorized every path of the labyrinth-like halls. Soon, the teen stood before the basement's stairs.

Not a sound invaded the night. The sparse light came from the moonlight that managed to escape through the floor-to-ceiling windows' heavy, velvet drapes. For some reason, Artemis' breath was heavy, and coldness gripped the back of his sweat-slicked spine.

_It's the Irish humidity and the night breeze. _He reasoned.

Suddenly, a _tick tick tick _emanated from down the stairs. It took three seconds before Artemis' flight instinct subsided. The ticking sound was imagination. There are no ghosts in the cellar. There is nothing and no one in the cellar. Not even the maids had set foot in the lower levels for the last generation. The door was impenetrable; as if the Fowl ancestors had locked that door with their very souls. The door at the end of this staircase would be locked, just as it had been since before he was born.

With this conviction, Artemis took one tentative step down the dark stairs. Slowly, he descended. After what he estimated was halfway down, the moonlight no longer reached him. He made the rest of his descent in darkness.

A thud at his toe told him that he had arrived at the intricately-carved, bolted door of the basement. He reached out to the knob that he knew would be hovering a foot from his torso. Artemis let his hand stay on the knob for a while.

_ He would turn it and find it unable to for it was locked, _he told himself. This he was certain of. Once he had proved this, he could go back to bed and go observe his uncle in the left wing again tomorrow.

He rotated the knob and it gave in, unlocking the heavy oak doors for the first time decades. A small draft of warm air blasted from the dark hallways within. An ominous thrill rushed though the young Fowl's veins. After a few moments of coaxing courage, he stepped inside.

After a few blind turns, light emerged from the end of the fifth or sixth (he had lost count) hallway Artemis traversed. It poured from an open door. Eyes squinting from the sudden glare, Artemis half-ran towards the light, thirsty for answers.

Inside was his uncle and as usual, the old Fowl was stooped over a desk of sorts, tinkering.

"You must be young Artemis." The voice startled the boy hovering at the doorway. It was hoarse from years of disuse, but Artemis could sense that it had once belonged to a man of power and grace, such as the high-class men his father so often had for company.

"You have been watching, watching, watching, watching me, young Artemis." The man stated, almost accusing.

Suddenly, the man straightened from his stoop, turned and faced young Artemis. The boy was startled at the unexpected movement. For the first time, he was finally seeing the face of the man he had wondered about for years. His uncle was definitely a Fowl with his sapphire, albeit tired, eyes. His gaze was sharp and intelligent, confirming Artemis' assumption of the man's health. The long, black hair he had seen from behind many times before framed a pale, aristocratic-boned face.

Young Artemis remained rooted to his stance. His eyes absorbed his uncle, and then shifted to the doll on the cot. The doll was more of an automaton, he noted, with chrome features and parts. She was a pretty, slight thing. Her body of cogs and screws were crowned with a metal face adorned with breathtaking features. Wings sprouted from her unfinished back, as pointed as her metal ears.

"Beautiful." The young boy murmured.

"She's almost finished. Fifty years, fifty long years. She's almost finished. She's almost back home." The old man told Artemis earnestly. His words were stilted, as if he was considering every utter. "Just a few years more. Would you like to see?"

The man dug into his clean, crisp dress shirt he always wore and unearthed a coin tied to a string. He caressed it gently once, as if it was the most precious thing in the world, before inserting it in a key hole of sorts at the back of the robot. The girl came to life before both Fowls' eyes. The elder smiled softly as her wings flapped once and her eyes blinked once. Just once, then the cogs in her body croaked to a stop.

"The five millimeter coil seems to be caught in the…" The teen said kindly, stepping forward and reaching a hand out.

Abruptly, Artemis' uncle's gaze turned frantic and frenzied. He shielded the fairy sitting on the old worn cot, which Artemis had earlier mistaken for a low desk.

"Stay back, human! Stay back! Stay back, human!" He snapped over and over again, his sharp commanding voice bouncing around the four concrete walls. The uncle started banging one spot on the concrete floor with the wrench he had been holding, again and again and again, sending shards of concrete flying. It was as if he was trying to get through the concrete.

"I only meant that a four milli- "

"Fifty! Fifty! Fifty years! Fifty long years! Stay back, human!" He whispered more hysterically.

At a lost, the boy tried to calm and hush the man down, but to no avail. As his rants became more violent, Artemis panicked and fled. Through the dark halls and out the basement door he ran and ran and ran, feeling as if the insane man would come after him. Eventually, he found himself in the silence and peace of the Fowl manor he knew. In the serenity of the Irish night, the ghost in the cellar seemed far, far away. A surreal figment of the imagination.

"Art?" The voice made the boy jump. It was a familiar voice, Artemis realized. He calmed down.

"Dad." He greeted back, facing his father. For a moment, he thought that his father was the crazed man that he had recently fled; so alike were their images. If it weren't for his father's curls and his saner features, they could have been twins.

"Are you okay? What are you doing up at this hour?" The Fowl said, taking note of the slight pant and the sheen of sweat on his son's forehead.

There was silence as the young Fowl gathered his thoughts.

"Dad, why did you name me after an insane person?" Artemis asked, searching his elder's expression for an answer.

Myles Fowl gazed down the hallway where his son came running from, then looked back at the eyes of his heir.

"He was my mentor and my brother." Myles told his son. "He needs someone to continue the life of he had lost."

* * *

**A/N: **There was always the possibility that one day, Holly would never come back. Maybe there's a eon-long underground crisis or the council banned her visits.

I've always wondered what Artemis did with that historic concrete cellar after the kidnapping. And for some reason, that crazy uncle comment Argon made during TOD got stuck in my head. Vaguely inspired by HolidayBoredom's Resurrecting Annie and the movie Hugo (starring Asa Butterfield)

A nod to Saoirse Ronan, who's Eoin Colfer's preferred Holly Short actress for the upcoming AF movie (stoked for that! Nyehehe)


End file.
